


drive me wild

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, lustful glances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 17:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18899761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: Morse, Fancy, a long car ride in the height of summer, one too many layers of clothing to get rid of. They really shouldn't be doing this.(George and Morse go at it in a car!)





	drive me wild

**Author's Note:**

> dont kill me this is my first time attempting any kind of smut so?? ive been told it reads well but like, im scared, please be kind! 
> 
> also im like kinda working in a world where fancy and trewlove aren't official or anything, maybe they went on a few dates but no cheating is occurring here lads
> 
> also sorry i gave morse a 'sir' kink. not sorry.

They shouldn’t have done this. Nevermind they were still on duty, or that they were in the middle of a case; they just shouldn’t have done this. 

But the long summer days have been a drain on everyone, the dry heat making everyone irritable. Morse has snapped at just about everyone who breathes today, not afraid to wave his new sergeancy around to get them to shut up. Fancy had to work up the courage just to pull Morse from his typewriter, and even then it was with a huff. They had a lead to follow, some forty minutes out, and the last thing either one of them wanted was to be stuck in a car. Morse stalked out ahead of Fancy, who simply sighed, snatched his jacket from the back of his chair and followed him out.

As he cracked open the car door, the wave of heat coming from the inside all but knocked him back. He slung his jacket across the backseat, and as he dropped into the driver's seat, he unbuttoned his collar. Morse slipped in beside him, jacket still on and Fancy tried to laugh.

“You’re gonna melt with that on, sir.”

“I’m fine,” he said simply, one hand tugging his lapel as if to prove it. Fancy shrugged.

“Suit yourself.” As he started the car up and began winding his way out of the car park, Morse cranked his window open. Fancy smirked.

Trawling through the busy Oxford streets, Fancy realised they’d probably set out at the wrong time. Just past noon, the sun still hung dangerously high and it seemed the world and his wife was out for Sunday lunch. The thought made Fancy’s stomach growl, damn he’d forgotten to pick up his sandwich. He caught sight of Morse in the corner of his eye, giving him an odd look, as thought the cries of his hungry stomach personally offended him. Not that Morse could talk, Fancy had seen him skip lunch more than once. He wondered if he might try his luck…

“Mind if we stop for a bite?” he asked, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the nearest pub. Morse glared again.

“I’d rather get this witness statement down, Constable,” he snapped, and Fancy thought he might have more to say, but instead Morse tilted in his seat and set his fiery gaze on the car  in front of them. Well, that told Fancy. No talking today, apparently, which was rather unfortunate because Fancy often had a hard time keeping quiet.

They made it another ten minutes before Fancy found his eyes drifting from the road. Morse was still staring out of the window, but he sat less rigid now. The heat must have been pressing down on him, because he was slumped slightly, and when they stopped at a red light, Fancy could see sweat beading along his brow. As he watched, Morse’s hand came up and he unbuttoned his jacket without looking. Seems the sergeant wasn’t as cool as he said he was. Morse tugged on his jacket, pulling it open as if moving it would make any difference to the sweltering heat.

Fancy was so caught up in watching Morse fling his jacket open, he didn’t realise the lights had changed until Morse’s head snapped up.

“Fancy!” He waved a hand forwards and Fancy felt his cheeks redden. His foot fumbled on the clutch for a second, but he managed to move on before the car behind them started shouting.

His eyes back on the road, Fancy found his mind was anywhere else. The image of Morse’s long fingers playing with his buttons had set all sorts of neurones firing, and Fancy had the strangest ideas about seeing what else those fingers might get up to. He shook his head sharply; the heat must be affecting him, he wasn’t sure where those thoughts were coming from. He pulled his concentration back to the road, telling himself to memorise road names or number plates, or anything that wasn’t Sergeant Morse’s hands.

Barely five minutes later, he could feel Morse’s eyes on him, and damn it, he was thinking about them again. He wondered if Morse ran as cold as his aloof nature made him seem, wondered if maybe those long fingers would be cool against Fancy’s flushed skin. Wondered if Morse could unbutton more than a jacket without looking.

Jesus christ, where was his head going with this.

* * *

Morse shifted in his seat as the turned a corner, and then let out a huff. Despite the air whistling through the open window beside him ,the car was still uncomfortably hot. He could feel his undershirt sticking to his back, and his shirt clung to him wherever it could. He was beginning to regret not taking his jacket off earlier, because it only served to add one more confining layer to the sticky heat of the car.

He refused to be beaten though, until he leant back, and felt the most uncomfortable sensation of sweat on his back. Grumbling to himself, he leant forward and pulled off his jacket as quickly as he could, which given his current position in the car, was not as easy as he would have liked. Having extracted himself from it, he flung it behind him onto the backseat, and refused to look at Fancy again, who seemed to be trying to hide laughter.

Morse’s jaw clenched. Just because Fancy seemed to be coping ever so slightly better with the weather. Though now he looked, there was a definite red streak across Fancy’s cheeks. It was good to know that something could ruffle the feathers of the usually cool George Fancy. Ruffled him quite a lot actually, now Morse watched. He couldn’t seem to stay still, either his leg was bouncing, or his fingers would drum against the wheel. And he squirmed a lot, that was odd. Morse had the strangest urge to reach over and grab at him, push him back into the chair and- get him to stop moving, that was it. The constant movement in the corner of his eye was annoying. It made Morse hotter just looking at him; all he wanted to do was lie very still somewhere very cool. Fancy must be boiling.

As the car finally found its way out of the busier streets and out towards the more winding roads, they were able to pick up a bit of speed. Morse took the opportunity to lean closer to the window, in the hopes he might catch something of the breeze. The air was dry and warm of course, and did little to cool the car at all. He fell back against the seat again. The minuscule difference did nothing except tease him with dreams of a strong wind and maybe a small storm.

Watching the trees pass in a blur, Morse found himself lost in thought, wondering if he should have taken Fancy up on his offer of lunch. They could be sitting under a tree about now, a cold pint in his hand, thumb tracing condensation idly. Hell, he’d take a glass of ice tea right now, or just water if Fancy offered it. He’d take just about anything Fancy might offer him- he shook himself from his thoughts. No need to follow  _ that  _ line of thought to closely. As the journey dragged on, both men kept quiet, too lost in their own thoughts to realise the other was too.

* * *

They pass a sign welcoming them to their destination finally. The house they’re looking for is only a few moments away, but Fancy has been through here before. He knows how narrow the road gets in a mile or so, and how it stays quiet down the next sideroad, away from the houses. It makes sense to pull off and park here, walk the rest of the way. He could certainly do with the air. Morse doesn’t question him as he turns off at the next junction, or as he parks up the car. He doesn’t even move to wind the window back up, so Fancy, without really thinking, leans across him to do it. 

Somehow, despite it already being silent, it becomes even more silent inside the car. Fancy freezes, arm outstretched, fingers grazing the  **_crank._ ** Then they both move, in unison, Fancy pulling back in horror as Morse reaches forward, and before Fancy can babble an apology for the invasion of personal space, Morse’s fingers are around his wrist.

Not what Fancy had been expecting, but he’s not exactly objecting, he had been thinking about those fingers on him for a solid thirty minutes now. He catches Morse’s eye and there’s a question there. As though he’s asking permission, asking if Fancy is thinking what he’s thinking. Fancy licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. Yes, he most certainly is.

Neither can be sure who moves first, if Morse pulled or Fancy pushed, but within seconds, Fancy has his tongue down Morse’s throat. Morse leans back in the chair, inviting, so Fancy clambers across the gearbox as fast as he can, grabs the catch the tilts the chair and tugs, sending Morse backwards with a winded chuckle. With Morse horizontal, Fancy has space to straddle him, to get his knees around those hips and squeeze till Morse’s back arches.

Their lips have yet to part, and Fancy is so busy inspecting every inch of Morse’s mouth, he hardly notices the hands creeping up his sides, until they’re at his shirt, dancing along his waistband. He pulls back, in need of a breather anyway, and watches as Morse thumbs the clasps of his suspenders. There’s something hypnotic about Morse’s hands, and he’s lost in them until Morse gets tired of waiting, and grabs him by the braces and pulls him down. There are lips on Fancy’s chin, on his jaw and there are hands wound tightly around the fabric of his suspenders.

He lets Morse pull them aside, lets him run his hands up his shirt and continue to unpick the buttons at his chest. Fancy is hot again, so hot, he needs to be out of this damn thing. Morse pulls his shirt apart, and for a moment Fancy mourns the fact his fingers are not in fact, cool as ice until Morse’s lips are on his chest, and then all he can think is that the need to get this shirt off him has just increased tenfold.

“Morse,” he breathes, as fingers dance across his chest. God he wants those hands all over him.

“George,” the sergeant growls, and it’s all the instruction he needs to lean back and pull at his shirt. He tosses his tie first, over his shoulder, before scrambling for his shirt.

From below, Morse watches Fancy rip it off, but finds himself distracted by the way the man’s movements make his hips roll. Fancy  _ really  _ can’t sit still can he? It’s a dangerously wonderful feeling, having George squirming in his lap, undressing for him. They  _ really  _ shouldn't be doing this, in a station car, on a road, in the middle of the day, but it’s almost as if this is what the long summer has been building towards. The climax of a week long drought finds them drenched in sweat, in this overheated tin can, Morse’s dick painfully aware of every shift and jerk of Fancy’s ass. He doesn’t still, even once he’s thrown his shirt on the dash, hips grinding against Morse. Each move sends a pang of something wonderful rippling through him, but he wants more, harder, faster. He tells Fancy as much, grabs the constable by the waist and pulls him closer.

Fancy bends, their lips meeting again. He lets Morse bite at his lip, lets his hands drop lower until their wrapped around his ass. He feels Morse grip him once, as though testing, and he whines against his mouth.

“Go on, sir,” the  _ sir  _ slips out by habit, but Morse doesn’t seem to care. He grabs Fancy’s ass again, harder, and Fancy has the sudden urge to let Morse tear him apart with his bare hands. He lets Morse grab and paw at him, until the tightness in his trousers becomes almost unbearable. He retaliates by reaching up and knotting his fingers in Morse’s hair, something he’s thought about doing since he met the man if he’s honest. Morse doesn’t mind, he seems to enjoy the way Fancy tugs at his auburn locks if his pink cheeks and shining eyes are anything to go by. Fancy must groan out loud or something, because Morse slows, gives him a wicked grin and then runs a hand along his inner thigh. The breath catches in Fancy’s throat, and it’s all the encouragement Morse needs. He slides his hands down the back of Fancy’s trousers, relishing in every noise his exploration knocks out of him.  

“Please, Morse, I want-” Fancy chokes out, hands bunching tighter in Morse’s hair.

“Please  _ do _ ,” Morse hums.

He watches with glassy eyes as Fancy makes short work of his belt buckle and pants. Before long he has his hand between Morse’s legs and Morse is all but moaning from want.

“Need a hand there sir?” He says and has the audacity to wink. Morse really should tell him to stop calling him sir, especially when his hands are wrapped around his cock, but the more Fancy says it, the more he realises he actually quite likes it. Any further thought he had about what this discovery meant flew out of the window as Fancy begins moving his hand. His world is suddenly condensed to nothing but here and now, the confines of the car all that exists as Fancy begins a slow and steady pace, rocking his hips against Morse’s thighs as he does so. It’s agonising, in a brilliant kind of way. All Morse wants to do is bury himself completely in Fancy, but this seems to be doing the job, especially when Fancy leans down to meet him, lips locking once again as he continues palming Morse’s cock. Somewhere in amidst it all, Fancy’s free hand sneaks up his stomach, undoing his shirt as it goes. He finds his way up his undershirt, pushing it aside so his  fingers can curl into the hair on Morse’s chest.

They’re both panting hot and heavy, against each others lips. Fancy is mumbling something into their kiss, an endless stream of babble. Morse hears his own name a few times, god as well perhaps, and more than once Fancy pulls back and just moans ‘ _ sir’  _ and honestly that might have been what tipped him over the edge. He comes apart in Fancy’s hands, feels all at once lightweight and all too heavy. He sinks into the seat, boneless as Fancy’s hands reach for his own trousers.

Morse goes to offer a hand, but Fancy’s already got his cock in hand. Morse licks his lips and decides to try something, just to see if it’ll work. He finds his voice again and summons his most commanding tone.

“Hands off constable,” he says, hoarser than he would have liked. “That’s an order.” Fancy’s hand slows and his eyes shine. He lets Morse find his cock, rests back on his heels as Morse makes quick work of bringing him to the edge. He’s already wound himself so tense, watching his sergeant writhe beneath him, that it doesn’t take him long to have Fancy throwing his head back as he comes across Morse’s chest. His cries rattle the car, and then it’s like he dissolves, collapsing onto Morse.

They lie like that, Fancy sprawled across Morse’s chest, until a breeze from the open window tickles his back. He shivers, involuntarily, the cool air not at all unwelcome on his sweat soaked skin. Morse’s hand is tracing lazy patterns on his lower back, and it is that more than anything else, that pulls him from his haze. Slowly he untangles himself from Morse. He sits up, still very much on the sergeant's lap and then catches sight of the mess they’ve made between them. He reaches over Morse’s head, intending to grab at his jacket; there’s a handkerchief in the pocket, it might help a little.

Morse says nothing, but his hands brush against Fancy’s stomach. He tries to ignore the fluttering sensation that brings. Hastily pulling the cloth from his pocket, he dabs at himself, then sheepishly offers it to Morse.

Instead of watching, Fancy pops the door of the car open, pulls his shirt from where it had landed over the steering wheel, and slips from the car.

The weather must soon be breaking, because the once blue sky has dark clouds rolling in across the city skyline. The air around him is less stuffy, actually cool on his skin. It seems a shame to pull his shirt on, but they really  _ do  _ have a witness to question.

As Fancy is wrestling with the elastic of his suspenders, Morse emerges from the car. His shirt is buttoned now, but in fairness, looks no more crumpled that it did this morning. Fancy wonders vaguely if Morse even owns an iron. He’s even tugging his jacket back on as he stretches, standing a foot or so apart from Fancy. They stay silent, both too lost in thought to say anything. Then Fancy’s eyes catches on Morse’s shirt, where it’s come untucked again.

“You’re a bit…” he points, and Morse glances down, flashing Fancy a quick smile of thanks before tucking it back in with a quick shove. Morse responds in kind by nodding towards Fancy with eyebrows raised.

“Where’s your…?” He indicates to his own neck, and Fancy’s hand mirrors his as he realises  _ oh shit  _ his tie is missing. He sticks his head back in the car, scanning the footwells for it, when Morse laughs from behind him.

“Is this it?” he asks, and when Fancy turns, Morse has his tie hanging from a finger. There’s a real grin on his face now, like he’s still laughing silently. “Caught on the hedge,” he offers by way on explanation. Fancy pulls it from his hand, looping it around his neck with a practiced move. Distantly, there’s a low rumble of thunder. The two men share a look.

They have a witness to question, a case to close, reports to type. They’ve wasted a good portion of the afternoon, and will no doubt be late back to the station. They most definitely shouldn’t have done this, but as the two make their way back up to the main road, neither finds he regrets it at all.

**Author's Note:**

> oh man i hope yall enjoyed, please lemme know what you though? feedback on this would be very much appreciated!


End file.
